


Passionate Intimacy: A Drama Therapy Workshop for Couples

by PercyByssheShelley



Category: Justified
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:29:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PercyByssheShelley/pseuds/PercyByssheShelley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raylan and Tim go undercover as clients of a couples counsellor they believe is harboring a fugitive. It goes about as well as you would expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passionate Intimacy: A Drama Therapy Workshop for Couples

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gollumgollum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gollumgollum/gifts).



> For gollumgollum. Happy Yuletide. Hope this comes close to what you were looking for.
> 
> Content note: there's a scene that implies that two people sleep together while deeply under the influence. Nobody is upset about it come morning. Just a heads up for anyone who is sensitive to this.

"Eli Lacey Cooke," Art said, holding up the file to show the marshals seated in his office a mug shot of a bored looking white man, about thirty years old. "Arrested in June on a charge of the manufacture of the county's finest artisanal marijuana dabs, failed to present at his self-surrender appointment last week."

Raylan held his hand out for the file, and flipped through it to the rap sheet. Cooke had quite the collection, ranging from possession with intent to distribute to interfering with the federal mail.

"Now this guy's not worth the paper it took to print his file, but he made a deal that would have him lead us to someone who could lead us to someone who could lead us to someone who might actually be worth our time. He's the weak link in a chain that the DA has spent six months building, and if we don't get him back a good quarter of our arrests for the year could end up back on the street."

"He can't have gone far," Rachel said, leaning over Raylan to tap an entry that stated Cooke had once been arrested after robbing a liquor store while still wearing his identification lanyard from the mines.

"About three miles by our reckoning," Art pulled out another file. He held up a picture of a blonde woman, beaming in a cap and gown. "Doctor Magnolia Cooper, also known as Mrs Eli Lacey Cooke from 1998 to 2003, and then again from September 2008 until June 2009. The good doctor swears she hasn't seen Cooke since he disappeared with her car in Oh Nine, but a neighbor reports seeing someone moving around upstairs when Cooper isn't home."

"What would we do without the Gladys Kravitzes of the world," Tim said. "So, we're staking out the house?"

"I've set up a schedule. But we can go one better- since her graduation, Cooper has run a practice from her home." Art passed Raylan a business card.

"Magnolia Dreams Relationship Management Practice," Raylan read. He glanced over at Rachel, who held her hands up.

"Not it. I've had my fill of marriage counselling."

"While I don't actually recognize 'Bags Not It' as a method of dividing up work, Rachel can't do it. The only appointment available today is at four, and she's scheduled to transport a prisoner from McCreary then."

"Wait, are you telling me that the woman who has been married twice to a man who was once arrested for trying to sell a car radio back to the woman he stole it from has a fully booked couples counselling practice?" Tim asked.

"People swear by her," Rachel commented.

"Turn the card over," Art said.

Raylan flipped the card. It read, in a curlicued script on a floral background, "MDRMP welcomes  **all** couples." He looked over at Tim, then back at Art, and sighed. "We really need to hire more women."

"Hear hear," Rachel said.

"You have an hour until the appointment, so I'd recommend that you both go home and change into something that doesn't scream law enforcement,” Art said.

"I really don't think-" Raylan started, but Art waved a hand.

"This isn't a hardship. Sit on her couch, give her a sob story about how the magic is gone and now you do nothing but fight over the dishes. Then make an excuse to go into the residential part of the house and find this doofus. You'll be done by lunchtime. She's a therapist, not the Dixie Mafia."

"Can I-"

"No, you cannot count this as credit against the next time you get ordered into counselling."

"Worth a try," Raylan mumbled. He put his hat on and left.

"Ten bucks says he shoots Cooke," Tim said, picking up the business card to examine it.

"Ten bucks says he shoots the doctor," Rachel said with a snort.

"This is a deeply unprofessional conversation that I am absolutely not hearing," Art said, sweeping the papers back into the file. "And the smart money is on him abandoning the case halfway through to go chase a Crowder."

"Oh, I don't pay out on that one anymore," Rachel said.

___

Doctor Cooper sat on the edge of her couch, looking on the edge of wriggling in her seat like a puppy as they took their seats on the other couch. She pulled out a note pad and started to scribble on it as soon as they sat down, her big blue eyes flicking from Raylan to Tim, who had perched as far towards the other end of the couch as he could get. "So," she said, drawing the word out. "What brings you gentlemen here today?"

Tim leaned back against the couch, crossed his arms, and smirked. "Raylan knocked up his ex-wife."

Raylan whipped his head up to glare at Tim.

The doctor's smile somehow got wider. "I see," she said. "But you're here, which tells me that this is something that you want to work through together. As a team."

Tim looked over at Raylan, who was still glaring. When it became apparent that he wasn't going to answer, Tim shrugged. "Sure."

"That's wonderful," she said.

Raylan grabbed the glass of water she had placed on the coffee table in front of him, and drained it in a single gulp. "Could I have some more water?"

"Dry mouth?" she asked, sounding sympathetic, and scribbled something down on her pad. She tucked it into her jacket pocket before popping out of the room, carefully closing the door behind her.

"What the actual hell," Raylan said, turning to Tim. "I thought we agreed we have communication problems."

"You saw her," Tim said. "She's pretty much wetting herself with excitement at getting to tell the girls at her book club that she had a real live gay couple on her couch today. The more juice we give her, the easier she'll be to work around."

"So tell her you're the cheater."

"First rule of lying, Raylan. Stick as close to the truth as possible."

"Here we go," Cooper trilled, plonking a crystal jug filled with water and floating lemon slices down on the coffee table. "Now, Tim," she sat back down on her couch. "In most couples I see, infidelity is a symptom, not the cause of troubles. Do you want to talk about that?"

"No, I’m pretty sure that was the cause," Tim said.

Cooper pursed her lips, looking like a mother who didn't want to discourage creativity but also wanted her son to stop drawing on the dog. "It might be helpful to try some 'I' statements. With an ‘I’ statement, the goal is to move away from labelling Raylan’s character or behaviour, and towards labelling your own feelings. Do you want to try?"

“I feel,” Tim managed, before glancing over at a stone-faced Raylan, and then he bit his lip, eyes watering with the effort of not cracking up.  Cooper clucked her tongue sympathetically and nudged her box of tissues towards him.

"Can I use your bathroom?" Raylan asked with an edge of desperation in his voice.

Cooper glanced at Tim, who was gripping a tissue with white knuckles and still chewing on his lip, but she still pointed to a different door from the one she had used to fetch the water. "There's a patient bathroom through there."

Raylan glanced plaintively at the other door, but got up and headed in the direction she had pointed.

"Tim, maybe we can use this opportunity while he's gone to explore your feelings about-"

"I need to use the bathroom too," Tim interrupted.

"Raylan will be back in a mom-"

"No, I really think I should go now."

"I'm sorry, the only other bathroom is in the back of the house, and I have..." she waved a hand in the general direction of the ceiling, but didn't elaborate.

Tim shifted in his seat. "Please?"

Cooper leaned forward and folded her hands on her knee. "Tim, I get the impression you're uncomfortable with sharing. Is that something you'd like us to work on together?"

Raylan saved him from having to answer, returning to his seat at the far end of the couch.

Something thumped overhead, followed a moment later by something ceramic shattering.

"That sounds like an intruder," Tim said, jumping to his feet. "I'll go check it out."

"It's just my dog," Cooper said, too quickly, and waved him back to his seat.

___

“He’s definitely in there,” Raylan said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, “but we may need a better plan than just going in and pretending to be gay.”

“Speak for yourself,” Tim said. He rested his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. He felt tired, right down to the bones, when all they had done was sit and gab for an hour about their imaginary intimacy problems. Well, Tim’s imaginary intimacy problems. He’d nudged the conversation back towards Raylan’s real problems whenever possible, and was probably going to pay dearly for that soon.

“What?”

“Just because I don’t take a vacation day to march in Pride doesn’t mean I’m in the closet,” Tim said with a shrug.

Whenever he had this conversation with someone, there were a couple of expressions that Tim had come to dread. There was the ‘I’m about to quote Leviticus’ look. There was the ‘Oh shit, have you been lusting after my ugly ass all this time?’ look. There was the ‘Squee, I’ve always wanted a Sassy Gay Friend’ look.

But Raylan just shot him a thoughtful look, one eyebrow raised, and started the car.

___

“Do you own this bar, or what?” Tim asked, sliding onto a bar stool as Raylan walked around flicking on lights.

“Or what,” Raylan answered. He slipped behind the bar and pulled a bottle of whiskey down from a middle shelf. He rummaged in the recesses of the bar for a moment before placing a pair of shot glasses between them.

Tim grabbed his and held it up to the light. It wasn’t one of the uniform, twelve for ten dollars at Walmart glasses he could see racked up beside the sink. It was painted with a kitschy sunset, probably bought on a beach in Mexico somewhere.

He looked down at the name of the bar printed on a coaster, and vaguely remembered a case file with pictures of a pretty blonde woman and reports filled with Raylan Givens double speak.

“We should probably have stopped back into the office to debrief,” Raylan said, free pouring whiskey into each glass.

“If Art asks, tell him we were strategizing for our next session. We can practice our ‘I’ statements.”

Raylan knocked back his drink with a flick of the wrist worthy of Scarlet O’Hara. “I hate therapy.”

“Good job,” Tim said. “I hate Maker’s Mark. Got any beer?”

“You’ll drink what I give ya.” Raylan poured another shot. He just stared at this one, rolling the glass in his hand. “Winona wanted to try role playing, the first time. Found it in some book her friends gave her,  _Passionate Intimacy_.”

“What, like she’s a teacher and you’re the naughty schoolgirl who just can’t take another F home to daddy?”

“No. Like she pretends to be me, and I’m her, and we discuss our issues.” Raylan pulled a face into his drink.

“You think Cooper’ll make us try that? I could do you,” Tim leaned forward and grabbed Raylan’s hat, plonking it on his own head. “Dammit, Boyd,” he drawled, in a voice that missed Kentucky entirely and landed somewhere in Alabama. He’d never been good with accents.

“Give me that,” Raylan made a swipe for his hat.

“We used to dig coal,” Tim intoned, ducking out of his grasp.

___

Tim rolled over, and immediately fell off the edge of the bed and hit the floor. He blinked up at the ceiling, a little confused and a lot hungover. He usually slept in the middle of the bed, but then he usually had an off-white ceiling, while this one was pure white with decorative water stains.

He scrunched his eyes shut, and remembered… he remembered Kent coming into the bar to open it properly. He remembered Raylan half shrugging one shoulder, offering to call Tim a cab. Or they could take the bottle and Tim’s painted-sunset shot glass upstairs.

He remembered stealing Raylan’s hat again.

He reached up slowly and touched the brim of the hat. Judging by the feeling of stale air on his skin, he was pretty sure that was all he was wearing.

He opened his eyes and sat up slowly. Raylan was sprawled across the bed, explaining why Tim had decided to sleep balanced on the edge. He took the hat off and put it on Raylan’s butt.

Raylan groaned into his pillow, long and loud. “Do we need to talk about this?” he asked, not lifting his head up.

“Hell no,” Tim said, yanking on his pants.

“We probably have to tell Art,” Raylan told his pillow.

“To quote a great lady, not it,” Tim said, fishing his shirt out from underneath one of Raylan’s boots.

___

Doctor Cooper clasped her hands together and propped her chin on top of them. “Your body language has improved,” she said.

Tim looked over at Raylan. They were still sitting at opposite ends of the couch, but he could see what they meant. Raylan was more open, with one ankle crossed over the other knee and his body tilted towards Tim.

It was easier to relax, knowing that a reprieve was coming any minute.

“Today I was hoping to discuss your sex life,” she said, dropping into a whisper on the last words.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim saw Raylan tense up. He reached out and rested a hand on the arch of Raylan’s foot, a silent reminder to stay in character. He didn’t relax much, but he gently pressed back against Tim’s hand.

“How often would you say you have sex, on average?”

“Once a week,” Tim said, at the same moment that Raylan answered, “Every day.”

Cooper frowned, but at that moment a phone began to ring in the back of the house. Tim relaxed, assuming it was the call they had arranged for Rachel to make.

“I’m sorry boys, I’ll have to get that,” Cooper said. “I’m supposed to have Adeline, from my church, starting as a receptionist soon, but until Monday I’m my own answering service.”

Raylan jumped up and beat her to the door, holding it open for her.

“Mind you close that tight behind me,” she said as she slipped through. Raylan nodded and tipped his hat to her.

When she had disappeared into the kitchen, Tim got up to join Raylan as he opened the door wider and peered into the back of the house.

A staircase cut the foyer in half, separating the kitchen from where they were standing. Someone moving on the landing ahead threw a shadow across the banister.

“Federal marshal, stop where you are,” Raylan yelled, sprinting into the foyer.

He staggered back, but not fast enough, as two hundred pounds of St Bernard clattered down the stairs and launched at him. Tim ran forward and grabbed it by the collar, but wasn’t able to pull it off before Raylan copped an enthusiastic and thorough face licking.

___

Rachel stayed on the line until the phone rang out, and then shrugged and put it back in her pocket. She’d thought it was a long shot that the doctor would leave a session to answer the phone.

She had to step around a twitchy looking guy to grab a candy bar from the rack, and something tweaked at her inner marshal. She glanced back at him again. He was a white guy, about thirty, with a new looking baseball cap pulled down to his eyebrows.

She tapped him on the shoulder.

___

Art carefully laid out Raylan and Tim’s reports on his desk and folded his hands on top of them. “To recap,” he said. “Eli Lacey Cooke has not, in fact, seen the doctor formerly known as Mrs Cooke since 2009. While you were busy being licked to death by Cooper’s dog-”

“I prefer the term ‘attacked’,” Raylan interrupted.

“You can prefer any term you want, I’m not initiating a potentially dangerous dog investigation on top of a situation that will keep our lawyers entertained for weeks, just so that you can save face. While you were occupied with Fido, Cooke was two counties away, being arrested by Rachel while trying to buy cigarettes in a Seven-Eleven.”

“I’d like it noted for the record that I thought this was a waste of time from the beginning,” Raylan said.

“Noted,” Art said. “Anything else?”

Raylan leaned back in his chair and tucked his chin in so that his hat cast a deep shadow across his face. “I do think that given our professional relationship I need to inform you that Tim and I… that… well, the nature of the situation is that…” He fell silent, and after a moment the awkward pause finished the sentence for him.

“Well congratulations Raylan,” Art said. “Nobody had _that_ in the pool.” He swept the reports into Cooke’s file, then tossed it into his in tray and opened up the next one. “Ok. Kaitlin Loman…”

**Author's Note:**

> As far as I'm aware, _Passionate Intimacy: A Drama Therapy Workshop for Couples_ isn't a real book, but it is a real workshop couples can take in California. 
> 
> I'm sure this is already apparent, but I'm not a couples counsellor, and I've never visited a couples counsellor. I can't speak to the effectiveness of the techniques mentioned in this fic, so I wouldn't recommend trying them at home.


End file.
